


The Messages That Never Sent

by AmateurScribes



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Agoraphobia, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Sexual Assault, Character Death, Developing Agoraphobia, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, Huggins Does Not Die, Humor, Immortality, M/M, Minor Character Death, One-Sided Attraction, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Time Travel, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vomiting, slowed aging, sorry guys but history fucking sucks and I'm not about to gloss over it, sorta?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 01:33:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17571788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmateurScribes/pseuds/AmateurScribes
Summary: When Grif made the trip from Italy to England he never considered the possibility that he would arrive in Camelot to find an empty castle and a warring battlefield.He never considered the possibility that he could be left in time, period.





	The Messages That Never Sent

**Author's Note:**

> This one is pretty heavy since, well, history fucking sucks and is actually really horrible so I wasn't about to ignore that. But this is something that I've wanted to write for a while, so I hope that you all enjoy reading it! As per the norm now, my Beta's were unavailable, so all mistakes are my own, _and there's probably a lot because of how long this is._ Hope you all enjoy reading!

He's clambering out of the English Channel, finally glad that his long journey to find his sister and Tucker was over.

Collapsing on the ground, he huffs out a burst of brief laughter at the thought that he, Dexter Grif, has traveled for a little less than a month on _foot._

No one can call him lazy ever again now.

His legs may burn from the effort but he's the true winner here.

Huggins buzzes around in excitement, clearly excited about finally being able to get back to those Cosmic Power dudes.

For once everything seemed like it was going to work out for him.

"Come on, Huggins," he drags himself off of the ground, still dripping wet. "We've got some idiots to talk to."

"Wonderful," she cheers. "Don't worry Grif! The castle should be easy to spot even from a distance- the future lies ahead!"

"Yeah, yeah," he can't help but smile. "Lead on, Huggins."

She dashes ahead of him, zipping past the forests of England to lead him towards the others.

The more he wades through the forests, the more unnerved he becomes. There's a faint sound of metal clashing against one another, a quickening and thundering sounded of feet against the ground.

The sounds of war grow the further into the forest he goes.

Even Huggins has retreated slightly, still directing him but now remaining closer to his person.

The DMR in his hands feels heavier at the thought that he might actually have to use it.

Finally, they're at the edge of the woods, and the clearing reveals an intense battle between two warring armies.

He watches on in horror as knights draw their swords to immediately drive them into the chests or the necks of other knights.

Grif has no idea what the hell is happening, but his heart stops when he remembers that Tucker and Kai were supposed to be here- and if that means that they were in the middle of this battle, he wouldn't know how to get them out of this mess.

"Grif," Huggins whispered, worry laced between her words. "I'm going to go and see if I can find them- maybe they're not in the fight!"

"Yeah, you go do that," he muttered back, lingering further into the forest, trying to hide his form behind a tree. "I'll wait here and try to stay out of sight."

"I'll be right back," she promises.

She zips forward, becoming a blur in the distance as she looked for bright yellow or aqua power armor.

Grif stays hidden, listening to the clang of sword on sword, the piercing of armor, and the unintelligible yells of dying men.

He hears the sounds of approaching footsteps and practically prays right there on the spot for it to be a knight who passes by without noticing him.

Unfortunately, his luck is as shitty as ever, and a knight is lumbering towards him, armor splattered with blood, a wound pooling the crimson liquid on his own person, sword held lightly in his hand.

The knight is huffing in pain, clearly on the verge of dying when he looks up and spots Grif.

Grif freezes at the sight of the other man, and he panics further when the half-dead knight raises his sword with a yell in a language that he thinks might be French, rushing forward towards him.

He could dodge out of the way and just watch the man bleed out, it was only a matter of minutes before he was a corpse on the Earth.

But he raises his gun and fires a bullet that shatters the knight's armor, the weak metal not even being a match for the round fired into the man.

The knight collapses with a wet gasp, his sword clattering to the ground, body leaving behind no sign of life.

Grif could panic over a lot of things.

Like the fact that he just killed someone in a time where guns weren't a thing. Or the fact that the sound of his gun firing could have been heard over the sounds of the other knights warring. Or the fact that he has probably just changed history ever so slightly.

But he doesn't panic at all. Instead, he just stands there staring at the body.

He stares and stares and stares until Huggins comes back and tells him, "I can't find them- they're gone!"

That breaks him out of his spell and he looks at her to ask, "They're gone?! What do you mean they're gone!"

"They must have left already," she frets. "But that means there's no one left in this time with a time gun! We're _stuck."_

"Stuck," he repeats back. Shaking his head furiously he says, "No, that can't be possible. Are you sure you checked everywhere?"

"I searched as thoroughly as I would on a task assigned to me by one of my Lords or Ladies," she moves forward. "They're not here, Grif."

Not here.

They already left and he-

He was still here.

He was going to pass out, his head was spinning, and the world was starting to blur but he felt so numb.

He was stuck in the past.

He didn't have a time gun.

He was never going to see his sister again.

He was never going to see _Simmons_ again.

"Grif, we need to get out of here," comes to him and he knows that he should listen to the voice, so he merely follows the light and does nothing else.

By the time he's more aware, he finds himself in some sort of cave far away from the sounds of people killing each other.

And it comes back to him that he just killed someone.

He latches at his helmet and pulls it off so that he can throw up.

He's heaving to the side and he's only vaguely disgusted at the action, but there's not much that he can do to get rid of it.

"Grif, are you feeling better now," Huggins hovers away from him, tentative in getting close to him.

"We're stuck here?" he asks.

"I-" she lowers herself and dims slightly. "Yeah, we're stuck here. I'm sorry, Grif. We were too late."

Nodding his head, he says, "Ok, yeah this is- this is fine."

"Are you sure you're ok," Huggins finally moves closer to him. "You weren't responding for a long time, I started to get worried."

"No, yeah, I'm," he swallows nervously, feeling feverish. "Everything's good."

Huggins doesn't sound convinced when she says, "If you say you're good, then ok, Grif."

"Everything," he leans against the cave wall. "Everything's fine."

This was too much to take in.

Reaching over for his helmet, he tries to see if he can send a message to Simmons. If there's a possibility that he can still contact him, and get help, then he might as well take it.

_(unsent)_

_[To Simmons:] S.O.S. Stuck in time. Come get me, please. I'm sorry, I lost the time gun. Doc's fault. Help._

He's not surprised to see that it doesn't send.

* * *

He's been stuck in the cave for a very long time, so long in fact that he's gotten used to the stench of his bile that he didn't have the energy to either wash it away or move to a different place.

He... he couldn't bring up enough energy to do anything really.

Grif thinks he left the cave maybe once since waking up there, and it was to dump his head in the river, the slight desire to drown himself intruding his thoughts. He felt so gross and it felt like he was on fire that he hoped the river would fix it.

It didn't.

He thinks that maybe he's in shock, but he's not sure.

His mind just keeps cycling back the fact that he's stuck in the sixth century bringing it to the forefront of his thoughts.

He must look like a dead body to Huggins, eyes with dark circles underneath them, not moving and not making an effort to do anything.

He hasn't felt this way since he woke up to find everyone dead but him back at his first outpost.

That planet and that event seem so far away to him now.

He's stuck in the past. He was going to die in the past. No one would find his body.

Would Simmons wonder where he went? Would anyone?

He hoped that they would find him, it was always a possibility that could happen.

But Grif was smarter than to bet everything on a small sliver of hope.

"You need to eat," Huggins announces, finally having enough. "You've just been sitting here and- and that's not good, Grif! I don't know everything about you humans, but I know you need things like food and water and air- and you're not getting nearly as much of those first two things as you should!"

"I'll, I'll do that later," Grif lolls his head against the cave walls. "I'm- I can't right now, Huggins. Just leave me be."

"No, I can't just leave you be," she huffs. "You're going to waste away here, and what am I supposed to do about it, huh? You're my friend now, and I want to help you."

"Why bother," he shakes his head. "What's the point? I'm only going to die in a few years, you know what time period we're in."

"But that doesn't mean you have to die now," Huggins argues.

"You wanna help me," he looks up at her through lidded eyes. "Then go... convince some peasants that you're a god or something. Don't worry about me."

"Maybe I will," she turns away from him and leaves the cave, making it much darker and much quieter.

Picking up his helmet he tries again.

_(unsent)_

_[To Simmons:] You're coming, right? Don't be late. I don't think I'll make it. If you don't come, that is._

Sighing, he lets it settle in his lap. He's just so tired.

He falls asleep easily, and he knows that he's just wasting away when he could be doing something to help himself make good on this situation. But what's the point? It's like he said, he's going to die.

When he wakes up later, it's to two strangers carrying baskets with food and a container of water, he jolts away, scared that they might have just accidentally stumbled upon him when Huggins appears demanding that they set the items down nearby and to leave and never return.

What the fuck.

"Well that wasn't too hard," Huggins said sweetly. "Of course, these are very simple-minded humans, but I was expecting at least some hesitation."

"Huggins, what..." he trails off, looking at the baskets.

"You actually gave out good advice, Grif!" Huggins twirls towards him, saying, "I managed to convince some unsuspecting shisno's that I was an angry god who needed them to help tend towards one of my hurt priests. Turns out, when you're a literal ball of light becoming a god is easy!"

"Is that how your Cosmic Powers did it," he mutters, turning away at the unappealing sight of food. "Came to your species and convinced you all that they were gods? I bet they're actually, fucking AI's or something. It would be just my luck if they were."

"No," Huggins huffs. "They're real divine beings and- I don't want to argue about this with you! I brought you food and water since you can't do it yourself, so can you please do me a favor and eat? Or drink?"

"Huggins, I don't think I can stomach food right now," he turns towards her nonetheless. "I know you're trying and I'm sorry but I don't think I can do much of anything right now."

She's silent for a moment, before asking softly, "Can you try for me, please? At least a little?"

He stares at her and sighs.

Getting up on his knees, he shuffles over to the basket of food and looks down at the assorted pile of fruits and bread.

Well, at least it was things that would settle easily.

Picking up a few berries he chews on them slowly, feeling his stomach churn at the motion and taste already. He forces himself to swallow and almost immediately regrets the action.

Grimacing he brings the container of water to his lips and drinks slowly, not trying to induce vomit by drinking greedily.

He settles it down and leans on the wall nearby the two new objects to the cave.

He can tell that Huggins is satisfied, by the way that she settles closer to him.

Little steps, little steps. That's all he can do.

Maybe this wouldn't be all that bad. Maybe he could just make due and hope that whatever fucking afterlife that existed would be present time and not this time period.

_(unsent)_

_[To Simmons:] I'm sorry. There's no getting out of this. I love you._

* * *

He's staring at his reflection in the water.

Logically, he knows that it has been many, many years since he got stuck in the sixth century. This is a fact.

And yet.

He hasn't aged a goddamn day.

He looks exactly the same, nothing out of place at all.

This... this was wrong. All wrong.

"Huggins," he whispers. "It's- it's been years right? Am I- have I lost a grip on reality by now and have been counting wrong, or do I actually look the same?"

"No, it's been years," Huggins says, coming closer to him. "Isn't- just how short is a humans lifespan?"

"Short," he shakes his head still staring down at himself. "It's very short Huggins. Certainly not long enough for fifty years to pass by and for me to not look a day over thirty. Something... something is wrong."

"What do you think it could be," she asks, following him as he gets up and strides back towards his cave.

"Is it possible- do you think this is because I'm not in my real timeline?" he asks, feeling the hope that he had long abandon return. "Maybe I'll start to age when I get back to the right year?"

If that was true then maybe, just maybe.

He could wait it out.

How long was it again? Whatever, it didn't matter. He was certain that he could tough it out.

Huggins shook her head, "I don't know. My Lords and Lady have never experienced something like this. Although..."

"Although what," he asked, looking at her.

"Perhaps it could be that the Titan, Chrovos, has done something to you," she lowered herself at the thought. "It's a horrible thought to think, I'm sorry!"

"Wait, wait," Grif stops walking to look at her. "Who now?"

"Chrovos, lord over time," Huggins explains. "The Cosmic Powers imprisoned him long ago, but just messing with time gives him some freedom. So I was thinking, perhaps, he's keeping you alive so that over time, he could be free again."

Lips pursed, he asks, "That's a bad thing, right?"

Nodding, she says, "A very bad thing indeed. He has the power to rewrite time."

He can tell that Huggins is horrified of this being.

So while he's happy that he now has a chance to meet up with the guys...

He finds that he doesn't like the idea of being an unwilling pawn to some bastard alien.

"Nothing much we can do on our end," he tries to reassure her. "Hopefully the Cosmic Powers are keeping everything in order."

He can tell Huggins appreciates the gesture even without words.

It gets easier and easier to read Huggins now that she was his only real companion.

* * *

He's never been good at keeping track of time, this is something that he knows. His HUD always had either a broken calendar or a fucked up clock, and he always relied on other people to keep track of the days for him.

Not anymore, however. Now it was only him and Huggins and the entire world as his calendar.

So he knows when hundreds of years have passed by.

He can also tell by the thousands of messages that never sent too.

He had branched off a bit, threw some videos into the mix too, knowing that they would never get sent to Simmons and that no one would ever know.

Hundreds of years.

That's a very, very long time.

So long in fact, that he realized one day that he was starting to forget what the other's looked like.

He couldn't remember their voices or their faces. It was all slipping away from him as the centuries roamed on.

It worried him that this would all be for nothing. That he would get to the right timeline but not be able to recognize anyone.

He had a collection of names and nothing else. What good was that to him?

What good was he if he lost his one purpose?

It was Huggins who comes to him in his panic- it's always her. Who else would it be?

The people of this time were none too kind to him. Especially with the way he looked.

For the first time since he could think back to, the problem with his appearance wasn't the skin grafts that Simmons gave him.

Oh no, it was for a different reason entirely.

It was getting harder and harder for Huggins to convince him to leave whatever place he temporarily called home.

He couldn't make it this far to die at the hands of ignorant people.

No. He only had Huggins to help him.

And when she saw him panicking she eased herself closer to him and told him, "Call them by their colors. Colors are easier to remember right? And when we finally get back to them, you'll know who is who."

It wasn't a bad idea. In fact, it was a fantastic idea.

So he found himself facing his helmet once more, making a video recording that would never send to Simmons.

Knowing that it was rolling he took in a deep breath and started to say, "Simmons is Maroon. Sarge is Red. Donut is Pink. Lopez is Brown. Kai is Yellow. Tucker is Aqua. Caboose is Blue. Carolina is Cyan. Wash is Grey Yellow."

He pauses for a moment before tacking on, "Kimball is Light Blue and Tan. Bitters is Orange and Tan. Matthews is Yellow and Tan. Grey is White and Purple."

He's about to end the video when he considers something and ends it with, "See you soon, Maroon."

The message is unsent as always.

* * *

The Bubonic Plague is a saint, and that is a sentence he never thought that he would say.

But it's true. Because it offers him the safest way to travel around without anyone knowing what he looks like underneath the mask.

He supposes that he should worry about catching it himself, but unlike all of the people from this age, he was born to a society that had already perfected a way to protect humans from the plague.

Grif lived in the future in the past. But these people only lived in the past.

And he gets to do something for once. No one will ever know that someone they considered 'inferior' was the one trying to save their lives.

He felt a little like that bastard Purple, after all, he was only there to make people more comfortable while they died.

Huggins also safely hovered around him as he made his way wherever the fuck he wanted to now.

She was his guardian angel, he heard some people say, feverish and dying. She would guide them to the light if he wasn't able to save their lives.

She brought some people comfort. A sense of peace as they slipped away.

And the get up he wears feels familiar to him. Being completely covered from head to toe is safe. This is his alternative to wearing his armor in broad daylight.

So yes, the Bubonic Plague is very much a saint hidden behind a veil of death.

* * *

It's nearly a thousand years after he's been stranded in time when Huggins informs him that, "You need to get a relationship."

He looks up at her from the paper that he was sketching on, a curious quirk to his brow letting her know that he was perplexed.

"It's been a very long time since you've had proper contact with a human," she informs him. "And I think that it would be very beneficial to your mental health if you interacted with others for once."

Blinking incredulously, he asks, "So you're telling me that I should get laid so that I don't go crazy?"

Turning slightly pink Huggins stresses, "I wouldn't say it so crudely, but yes."

Shaking his head, he looks down at his sketch once more, "Huggins you know I love Maroon."

"And it's going to be another thousand years before you see him again," Huggins doesn't hesitate to remind him of. "That's a very long time, Grif. It's already been a very long time."

"I can't do that to him," he looks down at the hand that used to belong to Maroon, hidden away from prying eyes by a glove. "I've managed to stay faithful this long, I can stand to wait a little more."

"But don't you deserve to be happy," Huggins argues. "Please, I watch as you hide away from everything and everyone, Grif. I've known you long enough to recognize how abnormal this behavior is- the outside world is starting to scare you and the people do too!"

"Of course they do," he looks at her incredulously. "Huggins, I don't know how things work for your species, but here- in this time? It's dangerous for people like me, ok? I don't expect you to understand, and that's fine, but I'm terrified for a reason."

"Surely not everyone is horrible," Huggins moves closer to the closed and hidden window, no peering eyes able to look at her or him. "You always assume the worst."

"I assume the worst to stay alive," he turns to look at her. "I promise, I won't be like this when we start creeping on the centuries where people don't fucking suck. But we're not at that time period yet."

"And if it develops into something more," Huggins truly looks at him. "What if this becomes something you can't control in the future, what if this becomes a habit that stays."

Not having a good retort, he settles on, "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

"Just one person," Huggins begs again. "You can be as careful as you think would keep you safe. But please, someone, anyone, I don't care."

"You're really adamant about this," he says looking at his companion.

"I don't want you to be lonely anymore," Huggins says softly.

"How can I ever be alone when you're here too," he gets up and settles his hand near her, an action that would look strange to anyone else but the pair of them.

"Will you try," she asks for the final time.

"I'll try," he concedes. She perks up a little so he amends his statement by adding, "But don't expect me to get intimate on the first try."

"Just a little human interaction is all I ask for," she chirps.

He puts on all of his get up, everything that can possibly hide the half of him that doesn't belong from the rest world's eyes of the judgment.

It goes well.

A little too well.

And Huggins is more than a little vocal about it.

"What do you mean you had sex with _William Shakespeare,"_ she shrieks, causing him to double over in laughter.

Maybe Huggins was right after all.

He feels just a little bit better than normal.

* * *

_(unsent)_

_[To Simmons:] (attachment)_

_Grif's tired face fills the screen as he says, "Been a while, Maroon."_

_Nervously, he brushes a lock of his hair behind his ear. His hair seems shorter than the last time he made one of these, but it's still long enough that he's able to put it into a loose ponytail._

_"I just want to start this off by saying that I think George Washington is a bit of a pushover. No seriously, the guy was way too casual with my appearance. I think the guy has a few screws loose if you ask me."_

_He laughs slightly before adjusting the straps of what seems to be a satchel bag._

_"And second, fuck writers. No seriously, fuck them. But especially Mary Shelley and Bram Stoker. Those assholes think they can just steal my existence to make novels that no one will ever shut the fuck up about without my knowing? Well, guess again, cause this is just a note to myself that I'm never going to fucking open myself up to people again."_

_Rolling his eyes a scowl grows on his face._

_"It's official, I don't look like Frankenstein, that asshole looks like me. And Dracula being immortal? Fuck that asshole, not aging at the right speed is not the same as being a horny anti-sex symbol."_

_The fake anger leaves his face as his eyebrows furrowed._

_"I think this might be one of the last messages for now. It's the nineteenth century currently. Which, well, you might have guessed, but anyways. Time has changed and I need to prepare for when I see you guys again. And after all these years I think it's time I make sure I have something to return to."_

_With a frown on his face, he says, "So, goodbye. For now. See you soon, Maroon."_

* * *

Looking at the giant passenger liner in front of him, Grif is just thankful that he had enough money to buy a ticket. Of course, it's not for an extravagant cabin or anything that would bring extra attention to himself.

No, he was planning on blending into the crowds of emigrants hoping to move to America.

It's been a while since he was in the United States, but with what was going to happen soon in Europe, he knew he needed to get the fuck out of there as soon as possible.

Hence, his picking whatever ship was leaving harbor sooner rather than later.

"Grif," Huggins whispered from her hiding spot inside of his satchel. "Why are we leaving again?"

"We're leaving because I'm not getting wrapped up in all that Great War nonsense," he said under his breath, wearily eyeing the people around him in case they heard. "Trust me, we're safer in America than here."

"But if we're leaving, why aren't we trying to bring your armor with us," Huggins asked.

Grif knew that she was wondering about this for, fuck, a handful of years.

Sighing he answered, "Trust me, I want to have it with me as much as you don't want people finding it, but when commercial flights are more of a thing I'll be able to carry it me wherever we go. But not now."

Satisfied, Huggins didn't ask any other questions, although he did notice that she perked up a little when they got close enough to the liner.

Getting on the ship and settling in his cabin wasn't a problem.

No, the problem only started later in the night when the ship hit something.

People were panicking around him, a wave of horror washing over all the other passengers. They're all in a tizzy and he knows something is wrong as he sees the water spilling into the ship slowly.

He feels like he's forgetting something, something important, and he's wracking his brain trying to remember what it is.

He's making his way up to the deck, grateful that he didn't bring any other luggage with him besides a bag that held some spare clothes. Everything he could ever need was on his person, or hidden in his bag, or hidden away somewhere safe in Europe.

Grif wishes that he could consult Huggins on this mysterious event that he had found himself wrapped in, but he couldn't reveal her lest the panic shift from _whatever_ was going on right now to the fact that a flying ball of light was on the ship too.

Ship. Water. Panicked people.

What was it that he had heard people talking about this ship again?

Something about it being unsinkable...

"Oh my fucking God," he yelled out, grabbing his head. "I forgot about the Titanic. FUCK."

His outburst caught a few curious glances, but the prospect of certain death has most of the passengers occupied.

With his sudden realization he can only watch as people try to get on the lifeboats, watches as women refused to get on without their husband, watches as first class is loaded on first, and he knows that thousands of people are going to die tonight.

He's not even going to bother getting on a lifeboat, not even he was that selfish. But as he watches people try to argue their way on, he gets solemn and meanders towards the band that continued to play music into the night.

It felt different being here, at this moment, he's tried to stay out of the way of any major events, but somehow his unlucky ass has found its way onto one of the worst tragedies in maritime history.

He knows not too long from now that the frigid waters would transform into a sea of death. The Titanic sunk in a matter of hours after all.

The band continues to play and play, and he just stands by doing nothing.

Nothing he can do can fix anything here. History was already in play.

He would cry if he could. He was about to find himself in a graveyard once more.

He starts to hum softly to keep Huggins calm, he just knows that she's panicking in his satchel.

There's a mother holding her child that looks at him as he hums, and she's bouncing her child up and down to keep them calm. Slowly and unsure she starts to hum too, trying to get her child to fall asleep.

This whole thing is a goddamn mess.

Distantly, he's aware that the ship's splitting in half. And that years in the future they would find both halves separated from each other.

But not right now, the process was still ongoing.

Not even he can stop the inevitable, and the ship capsizes in what seems like a matter of minutes.

The water is a deadly murderer, the frigid temperature killing so many people on impact.

He doesn't die. He clings to a random piece of what is now flotsam. Huggins hovers in front of him, the heat from her light warming his face.

She's slightly red and he knows that she's tied between being angry and being overcome with worry.

"You forgot about the Titanic," she deadpans, voice tight. "How could you forget the Titanic?"

Teeth chattering, he stammers, "W-well, c-can you r-really blame m-me?"

"Oh you stupid, stupid shisno," she mutters.

He knows it's going to be two hours before the Carpathia arrives to find dead bodies everywhere.

But at least he has Huggins with him, and he knows that even if he loses consciousness she wouldn't let him die.

Even now she's gradually making her light brighter and brighter.

She starts humming too. He tries to hum along, keep his mind busy and active.

He's drifting off slightly, and he closes his eyes for a second but he here's Huggins whimper, "Open your eyes Grif, you can't fall asleep you'll let go and drown."

"I'll n-never let go, H-Huggins. I'll never l-let go," he quotes to ease her worry.

He wonders if this is what the Meta felt in his last hours of life.

Water, cold, cold water.

The Meta had a suit where the water rushed in and took his life. The water surrounds Grif and he doesn't quite know how he's going to get out of this situation.

To think he boarded the liner to avoid one disaster only to find himself wrapped up in another.

He passes out and those in the rescue boats aren't quite sure what to make of the still alive passenger of the Titanic with what they could only logically think to be a patch of ice on his face. Some claimed that they saw a white light that let them know he was still alive, but they reason that it must have been their imagination.

Curiouser and curiouser, they don't know what to make of anything on that day.

It's a tragedy indeed.

* * *

_(unsent)_

_[To Simmons:] (attachment)_

_"Hey Maroon, it's me again. I know it's been a while since, well, I've tried to send you one of these."_

_Shuffling, the camera puts Grif in focus again, showing how weary he looks._

_Slowly he's starting to look more his age, or well, the closest he can get to aging that is._

_Grey streaks litter his otherwise dark hair, and the stubble on his face makes him seem ages older._

_"And- I have a reason for that! As you don't know, because these don't send through, I, uh, I buried the helmet. And the armor. To make sure nobody finds it and to, uh, make sure that there's still some juice left in it for when I finally get back to you guys."_

_Grif's shoulders bounce as he laughs softly._

_"It's silly, I know."_

_His face grows serious as he looks back at the helmet._

_"After the Great War was done and all, I decided to leave in the middle of the Roaring Twenties. Didn't want to be there when the Great Depression dropped, you know? Came back to Europe, stayed hidden mostly. Finally got the courage to leave another message."_

_Grif sighs as he settles against the wall of the building he was in. It's a stark contrast to the last time he made one of these videos._

_"I'm leaving Europe again. The Second World War and all. I'm going back to the States. I'm trying to see if I can get passage to Hawai'i. I might as well try. I don't know when I'll be able to come back for all the armor, but I'm hoping soon."_

_A smile grows slowly on his face as he says, "I'm closer than I've ever been before, you know?"_

_Waving towards the helmet, he says, "See you soon, Maroon."_

* * *

He should be wary about boarding the airship, honestly, he should have known better at this point.

But he boards it anyways because it gives him hope that commercial flights were soon to become a thing of the future in the past and that he could finally bring his armor with him to the States.

Plus, he really needs to get out of Europe before that whole Second World War bullshit starts.

Everything's going fine, but he's on edge because everything had been going fine on the Titanic too, but look where that got him.

Well, at least the experience was cool. Not many could say that they were in a zeppelin.

He's resting his eyes for just a moment when he hears an all too familiar voice exclaim out loudly, "Hot, hot, hot! Oh no, this is not good."

Blue is there and gone in the blink of an eye, quickly followed by Brown before he can so much as get a word out.

But as soon as the information processes that they had been so close, _a time gun was within his grasp for just a moment_ they're already gone and the airship is burning down.

With a sinking realization, he yells out, "Goddamn it! Really? The fucking _Hindenburg?!"_

It was official. His luck was the shittiest in the entire fucking world- no the universe actually.

At least more people survived this disaster than the Titanic. That was reassuring to him.

And when Huggins chewed his ear off for not remembering _another fucking catastrophe_ he distantly realizes that he's not as upset as he could be about missing his chance to get back to the right timeline.

He supposes that it was fitting.

He really was here for the long route.

* * *

"Hello, I heard you were looking for a translator," he's all smiles as he approaches the two men in charge of the voyage.

They look at him with visible disdain in their eyes, but he's careful to keep his expression void of anything too revealing.

"We might be," one of the men says. "Why, you think you can fit the role?"

"Oh, I'm certain I can," he forces himself to relax as he says. "I can speak many languages, in fact, I'm fluent in multiple."

"Oh yeah, which ones," the second man asks.

"I'm fluent in English, as you may already be able to discern, but I can also speak fluent Spanish and Hawaiian. That last one I'm sure would be invaluable to you," he steels himself for their responses.

"You a native," the first man asks, his eyes roaming over his form, taking in what he looks like.

Grif is careful not to falter under his gaze, and he was doubly careful to conceal the patch of white skin on his face with makeup.

"Yes, although it's been a very long time since I went back home," the truth but also not.

It has been a very long time since he's been in Hawai'i. But it's not his home. Not yet.

For fuck's sake, it wasn't even a state yet.

"Well, I'm not too sure if we have any real need for a translator," the first man looks at the second. "How long has it been since we taught the natives English?"

"I'd say it's been a while, if they can get the hang of it that quickly, then I'm sure we don't have a real need to understand their own language," the second man nods with sharp eyes.

It's hard to sit there and not react to their words. He's had hundreds of years of practice of not responding to any derogatory comments that he hears.

But the time was starting to catch up and his patience was starting to wear thin.

"You never know when you'll need a translator," Grif makes his case once more. "I speak more than just those three languages- I'm even willing to work for no pay. All I ask is for a voyage on this ship of yours."

The two men share a look, and he watches as they do so.

The first man shrugs and says, "Well fuck, if you want to get back to that hell hole so badly then be our guest."

"Thank you for this opportunity," he boards the boat and follows the men to the area that was designated to be his cabin.

Huggins is furious and rants for a few minutes at how rude those 'shisno's' had been before she settles closely next to him.

It's a long voyage to the islands after all.

And his purpose was altruistic he supposes.

The civilian sectors had been bombed during the attack on Pearl Harbor as well, and he figured no one would really notice if he was there to help.

He was taking the initiative this time. He was going to do good in a world that felt like it was mostly horrible.

* * *

All the lights are off and he's staring blankly at the wall. The covers are drawn tightly against his shoulders and he knows he's doing it again. He's shutting down, but he can't stop it.

There are just days where he can't get the strength to go outside, and it drives him crazy. His hand will shake against the doorknob before retreating and he has to control his breathing before he passes out.

He doesn't know how he let it get this bad, but he knows that he should have listened to Huggins all those years ago when she warned him about the possibility of this happening.

Grif knows he spirals uncontrollably at the thought that he could go outside one day and just die, and especially now, with everything happening down South, that prospect was all the more possible.

Huggins couldn't convince him out of this mindset by reminding him that he was safe, that he wasn't _in_ the South, but it couldn't dispel all of his irrational fears.

And when he spirals it leads him to suddenly cutting off everyone and everything.

Which is arguably worse.

Huggins hovers nearby, and he knows that she's used to this. It's merely one moment out of a thousand others.

"Grif," she gets closer to him, but he doesn't look at her. "Grif, _please_ don't do this to me."

He doesn't respond.

"Grif, please I need you to eat, or drink, or just get out of the bed," she tries to get close to his face, but he's practically flat against the wall that there's no room for her to squeeze in.

He can only manage to shake his head weakly.  He doesn't want to eat, just the thought of eating makes him want to throw up and that wouldn't help him in the slightest.

"I can't help you anymore," her voice cracks slightly. "Grif, please, I can't do anything to help you when you're like this- all my tricks don't work anymore."

He knows this. He knows this because the last time he got like this, she had actually ventured out to see if she could find someone to assist her, but all she got in return was screaming and people calling her an alien.

They weren't wrong, but it didn't help either of them in the end.

"Seeing you like this hurts," she whimpers. "Please, how am I supposed to help you when I'm not even human?"

He hears quiet gasps and sharp intakes of breaths, and he hasn't ever heard her cry before. He didn't even know that she could.

He watches the light on the wall lower, so he knows that she's lowering herself away from him.

Turning over, the bed springs compressing slightly at the movement, he watches as drops of light splatter onto the ground and disappear in hot sizzles. She's not looking at him, but she's crying as quietly as she can manage.

"I'm useless to you like this," she continues to cry, her voice cutting off with her sobs. "I wish I could help you more. I love you too much to see you die because I couldn't-"

She stops talking in favor of bawling, her light becoming a deep and dark blue.

He shrugs off his covers and slides off the bed to settle himself on the floor. The motion makes him so tired, and he knows a lack of nutrition has left him lethargic and weak, but he doesn't care.

Cupping his hand over Huggins, he can hear her crying stop slightly at the sight of him out of bed, and she quiets her sobs to mere whimpers.

"Love you too, Hugs," his voice is hoarse from a lack of use.

He knows that she appreciates his effort from the way that her blue dulls until she's turning a warm orange. She's still crying softly, but calm down, and he stays where is even when his arm gets tired and begs to be put down.

"I'll try to get better," he promises, knowing how empty it'll end up being.

"So long as you try, and not for me, but for you," she says.

"I will," he nods and they sit there silently before he asks. "I just thought of something, Hugs."

"What," she asks, her glow returning to a healthy state.

"I know I look like a hot mess right now, but do you think Maroon will dig it," he asks jokingly, hoping to bring the mood up.

She turns slightly green at the edges of her light as she indignantly says, "I think you look amazing- hot mess and all."

He laughs at her response, and slowly she begins to laugh too.

Yeah, this... this was much better.

* * *

He's walking down the sidewalk when it happens. The year is inconsequential, he's reached the point where he finds that he doesn't quite care. Nothing big is gonna happen for a while, that much he knows.

Grif has gotten used to ignoring the world around him, he's had hundreds of years of practice. The world was a nasty horrible place, and he had no business or method to meddle with what will change on its own.

He's but a gentle force in a torrent of wind, he can make no change, only follow the motion of time.

So when a piercing shriek breaks through his own trance, he looks up and sees that no one else is reacting. Shoving his hands in his pockets he aims to do the same when he hears sobbing as he approaches an alley.

There's a woman and there's a man, and the woman is trying to get away, but it's clear that the assailant has a better and stronger grip on her.

It- it doesn't look like he's going to rob her.

People still bustle on by, as if no one can see what's happening but him.

His fists clench where they're hidden, but slowly he reaches up and out of his pocket to the inside of his trench coat.

He's walking with a purpose as he enters the alleyway, and he grabs the man and hurls him off of the woman who had collapsed onto the ground.

Quickly, without regret he pulls out his gun and shoots the man point blank in the eyes, his body slumping against the wall.

Turning around he can see the horrified look on the woman's face, hands reaching up to cover her mouth as she chokes on her gasps.

She's still on the ground, so he reaches out a hand to help her up, saying, "Are you alright, miss?"

The woman slaps his hand away and gets up, screaming in absolute terror as she tears out of the alleyway.

At the sight of the woman running, the people stop and look finally, and instead of the scene that he had stepped in to stop, they instead see him, gun still in hand with a dead body against the wall.

There are people yelling that they were going to call the police, but he tears off into the distance and he knows these streets much better than anyone else. He saw them built, he saw the changes to this city. He's been here the entire goddamn time.

So it's no trouble for him to reach his shitty apartment, in the shittiest part of the city, and to close and lock the door in a manner of minutes.

His drops his satchel against a chair roughly, knowing that it wouldn't hurt Huggins.

He goes to one of the walls of his apartment. And he collapses.

He's so... angry right now.

Furious tears burn at the edge of his vision, and he doesn't know why he even bothered.

"Grif," Huggins had slipped out of the satchel, and she approaches him cautiously. "Are you ok?"

"I did a good thing," slips past his mouth. "I did a _good thing."_

Huggins is quiet and he knows that she's struggling about what to say.

"And yet," he mutters. "They're so ungrateful."

"Grif," Huggins says, panic tingeing at the edge of her voice.

"That man was going to _rape her,"_ Grif growls out. "So I killed a horrible person. And I'm the villain- I'm the one they look at in disgust as if I'm the one who did something wrong."

"But, you did," Huggins says quietly. "You _killed_ someone."

"So?" he narrows his eyes. "I killed a bad person- I've killed bad people before. People like that man- or anyone who's met the other end of my gun _deserve to die._ This isn't something to debate."

"No one deserves to die," Huggins retorts. "And you certainly don't get a say in who lives and who dies."

"You're wrong!" Grif jumps up, startling Huggins, and starts to pace. "I get it- you don't have a fucking body, you don't understand why people like that man deserve to die. But I do- I know exactly what kind of fucked up things that does someone."

"Grif, you need to calm down," Huggins keeps pace with his frantic movements. "Getting angry will do nothing to help, please!"

"You don't understand, Huggins," he stops pacing and clenches his eyes closed. "You just don't fucking understand what would have happened if I didn't step in- the situation would have escalated and I can't stand by and let that happen to someone else."

Lowering himself to his knees he finds that all the fight has left his body. And the anger drains away and all he's left with is a feeling of not belonging.

He's never felt more untethered to the time stream than in that moment.

"I don't regret killing that man," Grif whispers.

Huggins doesn't say anything, but she settles closer to his face.

"I hate humanity," he whispers. "I hate everything they stand for. All this hate and hurt. It didn't matter to me before. But now I've seen it all, and I will continue to see it all, and I hate it."

"Oh, Grif," Huggins mutters before getting as close to him as possible. "This world is changing, we're just waiting to get back to ours."

"Then why," he pauses to lick his lips, noting how dry they are. "Has humanity continued to do such uncomprehending evil."

"Because right now you're angry," she says. "And you refuse to see the good."

A soft pink glow settles on her form, "And besides. I don't think you're evil, and last I checked, you're as human as they come."

With a huff, Grif says, "What would I do without you, Hugs?"

She doesn't say anything nor does she move away.

* * *

_(unsent)_

_[To Simmons:] (attachment)_

_"Happy Y2K, Maroon!"_

_Grif has a soft flush to his cheeks as he raises a champagne flute, a notable slur to his words._

_"We're gonna- we're gonna laugh about this because, I know how stupid you thought people were for thinking the world would end because uh, because of that bug! And let me tell you- it's sure as fuck funnier when you have knowledge of the future!"_

_He giggles slightly, taking a sip from his glass._

_"I'm celebrating this New Years because I've finally reached the right first digit- for the, for the year! Hurrah!"_

_There's no more drink in his glass as he looks down at it and remarks, "I've had so much alcohol tonight that it's- it's almost funny!"_

_He settles the glass down before reaching out for the helmet and picking it up to show it the apartment that he was in._

_"Welcome to America, suit! It was easy to bring you over, and now that I'm staying stationary in this country it's time for you to retire with me."_

_Settling it down, he waves and ends the message with his usual, "See you soon, Maroon."_

* * *

He's walking down the streets of New York City, eyeing the tall buildings in the distance, thinking about where he should go in the meantime.

On principle he refused to go down to Florida, he couldn't remember exactly when the state sunk, but with his luck, he wasn't going to even chance it.

He'd been staying in New York for a while, expressing surprise at the fact that Long Island hadn't sunk yet, to Huggins mortification that he would even think that would happen.

And as much as New York annoyed him, the bustling city having too many people in it for him to remain comfortable, it worked for now. He would love to stay in Hawai'i but it wasn't the island that he remembers- however vague and distant those thoughts were to him now.

But now he had to get out of the state. He wasn't an idiot, as much as he had forgotten in the past he was able to remember a few things.

So in the prime of August, he was going to leave, maybe come back in a few years, if he felt like it.

He's walking down the street when he hears an explosion that sounds like a grenade and the sound of someone screaming.

Immediately he turns to buildings behind him, worried that somehow he had been mistaken and that it wasn't August like he thought, and that it was September after all.

But then a loud thump sounds behind him and he turns around, fumbling for the gun in his coat.

He pauses at the sight of a purple armored man before him.

The man grumbled as he got up, but stopped at the sight of him staring. They were the only two in this particular alley, and no one had actually paid any mind to the sound, thinking it to be a car backfiring.

They wouldn't be thinking like that in a month.

"Huh," Purple looks at him with confusion. "What just happened?"

His fists clench at the sight of the traitor in front of him, the primary reason for why he had been stuck in the past all those hundreds of years ago.

"Purple," he growls out, grabbing the disorientated man and slamming him against the concrete wall.

"G-Grif," Purple recognizes him on voice alone, and he supposes that he does look different. "What are you doing here?"

"Where is it," he demands, eyes searching all over searching for the damned machine. "Where's the fucking time gun, where did you put it?"

"I- I don't have," he brings his hands up, and Grif slams him into the wall again as he stammers out, "I swear I just lost it!"

"No, no," Grif shakes his head and let's go of him. "Tell me- tell me you're lying."

"I'm not, I'm just as stuck as you are," Purple looks to the side. "I deserve this, letting O'Malley take control like that..."

"Shut up," Grif growls, turning away from him. "You- I can't _believe you right now."_

"Grif," Purple reaches out to him.

"Don't fucking touch me," he slaps the hand away. "I don't want to see you right now! In fact, I'm going to fucking turn around and leave and hope to fucking God that I never see your fucking hide again, because I am this close to putting a bullet between your fucking eyes."

"But-" Purple tries to say but he cuts him off by bumping past he and stalking out of the alleyway.

He couldn't deal with right now.

Every time.

Every fucking time.

Those goddamn machines slip past his fucking grasp.

* * *

Huggins had convinced him to do something for himself for once. Something nice, a treat she said.

So he decided to go and watch one of his favorite movies in its debut in theaters. It was nice.

He wouldn't deny it, he was glad she convinced him to do this. A day out of thousands more to just to enjoy himself made him happier than he had been in years.

Grif's walking back towards his current apartment, when he sees a woman holding her child's hand asking for assistance in Spanish. She doesn't seem particularly bedraggled, merely tired and just hoping for directions to somewhere he presumes.

So essentially, she isn't his problem.

He walks by without looking back, but he hears behind him a different Spanish voice, one that was much more mechanical and masculine.

Pivoting quickly, he tries to catch Brown's armor in the distance, calling out, "Marrón, espera, soy yo Grif!" _Brown, wait, it's me Grif!_

Unfortunately, he catches the attention of that woman he passed by earlier and she asks him, "Señor, ¿hablas español? ¿Puedes ayudarme por favor a encontrar-" _Sir, you speak Spanish? Can you please help me find-_

"Suelta mi mano, necesito-" _Let go of my hand, I need to-_ he tries to yank his hand out of her grasp as he sees Brown and Blue disappear in a sea of people.

The fight quickly leaves his body and he stops his attempts to call out, just staring after their already gone forms.

"Señor, ¿estás bien?" _Sir, are you alright?_ the woman asks him, her head tilted curiously.

Sighing, he looks at the woman and asks, "Mis disculpas, señorita. ¿Qué estabas preguntando de nuevo?" _My apologies, miss. What were you asking again?_

Why does he even bother anymore.

* * *

He's staring down at the papers in front of him. He's filled them all out, well as best as he can. He's signed them. But...

But Maroon isn't here to sign the papers either.

Grif sighs and looks away, knowing that these papers would be unfinished for a very long time.

He looks at the date and smiles a little bit, knowing that if he actually showed these to him, maybe, just maybe that date would mean something to Maroon.

He's waited a long time for the legalization of gay marriage.

Sure, it didn't mean much now- the only person he would want to marry isn't born yet and lives in the future far ahead.

But it was something.

And yet, still not enough.

The number of things he heard and was called just getting these papers unaccompanied was atrocious, a mountain of statements he's had to face the brunt of over the years.

They matter little to nothing to him, he's been run out of places in the past for being outed, he's gotten used to his existence being hated by others just for being himself.

But these papers? They were something that he wasn't going to part with.

Maroon may never sign them, but that didn't matter.

Not here, not now. Not this year, not this day.

No.

These papers meant something very important to him.

So he slips them into his satchel, the one thing he always kept on his person.

It was as close to being near his heart as they were going to get.

* * *

The absolute confusion and perplexity on his face were visible for all to see as he watched a passionate history teacher inform his students that they were about to get, "High on history!"

He- he had to know what the hell this was all about.

Walking up to the group, he watched as a pair of students got up to the sight of the Wall Street Bombing to do a presentation about it.

The history teacher noticed his approaching presence and gestured to him saying, "Ah, I see you're interested in getting high on history with the rest of us! Wonderful, we're doing a walking tour of the city, care to join us?"

"Are you aware," he starts, eyeing the presentation, and the way that the kids were bundled up in coats due to the cold November chill. "Of how that phrase sounds to other people?"

"What? Getting high on history?" the teacher shrugged and gestured to the indents in the building in front of him. "But that's what it is, I'm getting my student's involved and right at the origins of history itself. Who wouldn't get high on that?"

Blinking, he can't form any type of retort to that.

He, well, he guessed the teacher had a point.

"Probably normal people," he shook his head as he continued, "Unfortunately, I know a lot more about history than I should."

This catches the attention of the teacher, as he says in response, "You know American History? Then you should join us on the tour, we usually end it at the Brooklyn Bridge."

"I wouldn't want to impose," he deadpans.

"You wouldn't be imposing at all," the teacher pauses for a moment to tell the students that they were heading towards Tweed Hall next before turning back to him. "I _insist_ that you join us."

He supposes that he could tell the man off and just go about his merry way, but really he didn't have anywhere to be, so why the fuck not.

He joins the group as they make their rounds, and it takes him a few presentations to realize that there were actually three different classes on the trip, and thus three different groups of students.

Grif watches as he sees some of the kids whisper amongst themselves and point at him, thinking that they were being discreet.

Two of the students look at him suspiciously, and every time he makes some sort of comment about the locations that they present about, they consult with each other despite being in different classes.

It's when students are taking the time to take a picture at the Fearless Girl statue that they approach him warily and ask, "Are you homeless?"

Squinting his eyes at them he asks, "Do I look homeless to you?"

The taller of the two shrugs and says, "It wouldn't surprise me, apparently her teacher has been asking random people to join them on the tour every year but you're one of the few people who actually do it."

"Well, no, I'm not homeless," shaking his head he adds on, "If you think I'm homeless then why in the hell would you approach me?"

"You can't do any more harm than this fucking class will do to my average," the smaller girl bluntly responds.

The taller elbows her but she merely glares and says, "What? You know that it's true!"

"Anyways," the taller one looks at him again. "If you're not homeless, then are you a time traveler?"

Eyes growing wide, his jaw drops as he tries to conceal the truth by saying, "What- how- why would you think that after my being homeless?"

"You know too much about history," the smaller one says. "And that's coming from the kids who are taking this course. You probably know more than our teacher."

"Which means, you were probably there when all this stuff was built or when these events happened," the taller one concludes.

Seeing his chance he points out, "Your teachers are moving on."

Looking behind them, they see that the groups are separating again and they hurry off to get to their respective teachers, but not before throwing glares at him for the last time.

And thus, that was his cue to get the hell out of there before they confronted him again.

Was he really that transparent? Or had this generation lost its mind?

Well, that last one might be it when he considered that they were probably Gen Z kids.

* * *

Speaking of Gen Z kids, he will _never_ forgive them for the monstrosities that they bred.

For years, every fucking conversation he had with Huggins was _ruined._

One instance, he was explaining to her something, and made the grave mistake of saying that something was 'hit or miss.'

He did not hear the fucking end of it with that goddamn song.

Without a doubt, he was living in the worst goddamn timeline.

* * *

_(unsent)_

_[To Simmons:] (attachment)_

_"Can Europe chill for fucking once?" opens the video._

_An older looking Grif fills the screen, his hair an equal mix between grey and black. He looks as if he has settled on the ponytail look, his hair a medium length to make it work._

_The satchel, as ever, is present, but it looks newer, clearly replacing that old tattered one that he had in the last video._

_The patch on his face is hidden to make it seem as close to possible like his natural skin tone, but there's no attempt to disguise the stark contrast of his eyes._

_"You know, I always knew that there were three fucking World Wars, but I never realized how fucking bullshit the third one was. Honestly Maroon, Red would go fucking ballistic to be in this time period- it's perfect for him."_

_Shaking his head, Grif rubs the back of his neck._

_"This is officially the last video I'm going to 'send' to you, I'm closer than ever to the twenty-sixth century, so I guess there's just no more need for messages. I'll see you soon enough, right?"_

_Reaching over to turn off the helmet, he mumbles out, "See you soon, Maroon."_

* * *

He's sitting in front of his TV, face so close to the screen as he watches the seconds count down.

Ten.

Grif has been waiting for this moment for two thousand fucking years, he's not going to miss this moment.

Nine.

This was it- this was the moment he's been waiting for his entire fucking life.

Eight.

Was this going to change everything? Probably.

Seven.

But he's waited this long- he's made it.

Six.

He watches in anticipation, a sort of thrill to his body that he hasn't felt in years.

Five.

It felt like his heart might burst from all the emotions he's feeling.

Four.

Soon. So goddamn soon.

Three. Two.

He's made it.

_One._

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the twenty-sixth century," the announcer on the TV exclaims, her face a bright red from the freezing winds as she cheered along with her fellow hosts.

Grif sits back and smiles softly.

Sure, there were a few more years left for him. But they would be like the blink of his eyes.

He was going to see the others soon enough.

* * *

It's an easy thing to craft a whole new identity for himself. He's had years of practice after all. Sure it came with some sacrifices- lord knows how many times he wished he could register to vote in elections, but know that it didn't really matter anyhow as history would play out as it was supposed to happen anyways.

But just because he's had practice didn't mean that he was _good_ at it.

So when he goes through the process of crafting a whole new persona so that he could become an investigative journalist, he's practically banking on the fact that the UNSC isn't really looking into the details of his records what with the invasion of the Covenant forces.

And it works for a few years. No one can question his use of field armor anymore, and it feels good to wear all of it in public again.

But the constant reminder of all the messages that never went through does hurt a little.

The number of unsent messages is a glaring reminder that he's still out of time.

He figured out long ago that he'd probably always feel out of time.

Is he good at this new field of work? Not particularly. He's moderate at what he does, it gets him going, but really it's just a stepping stone to getting closer to the Reds and Blues.

He happens to meet a young woman one day, an aspiring journalist who values the truth above all else.

She reminds him of someone, but he's yet to have seen her in her field armor, so he can't really say if he recognizes her. He's memorized all the colors and, well, names- he supposes- of the people who were dear to him, so if she doesn't bring up any old and faded memories then she probably wasn't one of those people.

But back to how terrible he was at creating fake personalities when he met this reporter he had stumbled over his pseudonym, drawing a complete blank and fumbling by saying the only name to enter his thoughts, the half-remembered name of Yellow, "Kai... kane. Kaikane."

"Kaikane," the budding reporter repeated. "That's an interesting name, you got a last one?"

"Gri- ef. Grief. That's me, Kaikane Grief, yeah," he mutters at the end, thankful for the helmet that hid his expression.

"It's wonderful to make your acquaintance, Mr. Grief," she extends her hand, and he halfheartedly shakes it, just thankful that he managed to get his ass out of hot water in time.

Grif constantly runs into her over years, and despite keeping his distance, she seems to consider him a good friend.

A good enough friend to inform him of one of her assignments apparently.

"I've been tasked to finding out more about the terrorist actions of the Reds and Blues," she reveals to him over a video call. "And when I say task, what I really mean is that I've coerced my boss into letting me investigate it."

His eyes widen in realization-

A torrent of memories slide and click into place, filing themselves under her name.

And suddenly, he understands why one Dylan Andrews seems so familiar to him.

"Oh yeah," he tries to keep his cool and not reveal his shock to her. "Well, I wish you all the luck. As usual, I know you'll uncover the truth."

"Of course I will," she sounds prideful at that. "I'll be sure to send you the article when I'm done with it."

"No need," he says. "I'll be following this case closely, it'll be like I'll know about the article before you do."

They bid their goodbyes, and he sits back into his chair as he mulls over what that means.

Freelancer has fallen already, his past self has already gotten out of Blood Gulch, Chorus has already been liberated.

So much has happened and yet it all passed him by.

But it was almost time, and he was ready for the moment when everything came together.

* * *

It's exactly as he says, he knows about Dylan's article before she does. And that's because he knows that they've already defeated Temple and his motley crew.

But what surprises him is that nothing happens for a whole year.

He frowns as he paces, periodically checking the news for any mention of the others.

It left him on edge, and he wasn't sure if he had gotten to exactly the right time.

Had it already happened? Had he caught up with his past? Would he know when it would happen?

When he receives a call from Dylan, he's glad for the distraction, and he sees that Huggins comes in close to listen to the call as well.

"You're not going to believe this," the woman sounds breathless. "I don't quite believe what I'm seeing myself, but I might need your expertise about this. You know a lot about history right?"

He raises his head in interest and responds, "I sure do. Why, what has you so shocked?"

"It'd be easier if I told you in person," on his screen a set of coordinates appear. "Come to this location, it's where I'm staying whilst I'm on Chorus for a story. I'll be waiting for you."

"I'll be there as soon as possible," he says, ending the call.

"What do you think that's about," Huggins questions, looking at him.

Looking at Huggins, he shrugs his shoulders and says, "If I'm willing to guess, it has something to do with the bane of my entire existence."

* * *

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* * *

He's staring, horrified, at the scene in front of him.

His messages...

They had finally sent.

He- he should be happy. That meant he was finally in the right time period, he was back to his own time. The others- they were so close and yet so far.

_But those messages were never meant to be sent._

They were never meant to be broadcast to the world- the _galaxy-_ his early years stuck in time, immortalized for the world to see.

There were going to be many who looked at the videos and assume it was an amateur film project- after all time travel wasn't possible.

But who knew how many would actually believe the content in the videos. Would he be hunted down now?

The government might believe the videos.

Panic spread through his heart slowly but surely, and while his mind raced like a locomotive run off the tracks, his body was paralyzed in the same spot.

Those messages were supposed to be private.

He forgot who he was for just a moment, forgot where he was and who he was with.

Turning he can see Dylan Andrews staring at him with her mouth agape in complete shock.

Of course, she would connect the dots immediately.

Heart pounding, he ran out of the office into the open streets of Chorus. His satchel bounced harshly against his body as he came to an abrupt stop.

Looking to the right and to the left he became stuck once more on what direction to go- there were too many possibilities and too many choices and it was making his head spin.

He didn't know what lay ahead in the future. He was all caught up now. And that thought panicked him even more.

Hearing Dylan calling out his name- his _real_ name, not the fake one he had been going under for the moment, not any of the names he had gone by in the past. No. His real name- and he took off.

He darted past people, some he knew, some he didn't- Chorus had gotten so much more populated and it was the reminder of these differences that made the looming skyscrapers and buildings stretch and loom far, far above him.

He ducked into a random alley and finally collapsed against the ground. He greedily took in breathes, but couldn't manage to regulate his breathing.

Everything was too much- far too much for him to handle at the moment.

He felt his satchel open up and Huggins dart up in front of him. She hovered close, worried, and it was her concern that bled off her and into her light, making her a dull blue.

"Grif," she whispered. "You need to calm down. Take deep breaths, with me."

He would laugh and point out the fact that she didn't have any lungs to breathe with, but he was too busy choking on his own panic to make out words.

"In one, two, three," Huggins rose up, making sure his eyes tracked her form. "Out four, five, six," she said as she gently lowered herself down.

They continued this process, regulating his breathing and making everything all right again.

But still, he sat, in a dirty alleyway, people walking to and fro on the edges of his vision, on the edges of the alleyway.

Leaning back against the wall he sighed, "What a fine mess I've made of myself now, Hugs."

Seeing that he was alright, her color returned to her, and Huggins moved in close, not hesitating to hover against his shoulder.

"It's scary isn't it," she said. He nodded and she continued, "Being back here? At some times... I didn't think you'd make it."

It was said softly, with such sadness that he looked down at her with surprise.

"Huggins?" he asked imploringly.

"It's been a long time," she said. "We've gotten so close over these years- and, I'm just me. There were so many times I wish I could have helped more but, I couldn't and it was so frustrating. So many times you could have died... and I wouldn't have been able to do a damn thing."

Grif wished he could hug her, in fact, he's wished that so many times.

He did the best that he could and cupped his hand around her form and reassured her fervently that, "Trust me, Hugs. If you hadn't been with me, I wouldn't have made it as long as I did."

"Grif," it sounded like she was on the verge of crying, a burning process that left her brighter than normal.

She nuzzled herself closer to his hand, a soft orange glow to her light, spilling out through the entire alleyway, brightening up the otherwise dark night.

It's this light that shines the way for Dylan to find them, much calmer and ready to talk.

She stood at the end of the alleyway, on the edge of the public and on the edge of the private chaos that was their long travel.

"So," she said, softly as she approached. "Your name isn't really Kaikane Grief."

Huffing with a muted laughter he said, "No, no it is not."

Nodding, she said with a set frown on her face, "It's... not a very creative name now that I know who you actually are. I'm honestly kind of disappointed in myself for not figuring it out until it was revealed to everyone else."

"I'm not surprised," he said. "It didn't seem obvious because you had no reason to suspect that I would ever do such a thing as disguise myself as an investigative journalist."

"True," Dylan nodded. Kneeling down near them, she looked at Huggins and asked, "I am to guess that this is the Huggins that was frequently mentioned in those... videos?"

"That would be me," Huggins brought herself close to Dylan's exposed face, watching as she winced from her light. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. Andrews."

"The pleasures all mine," Dylan smiled slightly, before looking seriously at him. "You must understand how weird this all is."

"Believe me, I've lived through it," he ran a hand through his hair. "I've lived through all of it."

"I have connections," Dylan blurted out. "And you have connections too."

"And," he inquired, not really following her train of thought.

"The UNSC won't be able to touch you," she explained, and she saw the realization bloom on his face. "I'm sure the president of this wonderful planet would be willing to place you under her direct protection. And the people of this planet would never leave one of their heroes to be left to fend off the UNSC by his lonesome."

"Light Blue and Tan," stumbles past his lips, and his eyes widen before he corrects himself, "K-Kimball."

Dylan is sympathetic as she extends her hand, "It's been a very long time hasn't it, Grif?"

Taking it and hauling himself off of the ground he simply mutters, "It's been practically two-thousand years."

"How have you managed to stay alive," blurts out of her mouth, and he can tell that she regrets the question.

"I don't know," he shakes his head. "I want to say time travel, but it feels more like someone didn't want me to die. Huggins has a theory but… we’re not inclined to share it."

"Well, whatever reason, I'm sure we're all thankful for it," she says with such earnestly that it makes Grif feel slightly guilty.

He doesn't know how many times he wished he could just die.

But now he's here. He's made it.

Despite literally everything, he's made it to the right year, the right month, the right day, the right time.

And only a little worse for wear.

In the expanding silence, he jokes, "Do you think Mar- Simmons would be into the salt-and-pepper look I'm rocking? Huggins never did give me a clear answer."

And despite it all Dylan barks out a laugh, and it sounds like winds making chimes sing as she says, "I don't think I'm quite the one to ask this, perhaps you could ask him yourself."

Too many emotions at once at that thought.

But he knows that he needs to do this, so he says, "Perhaps I could."

* * *

Kimball looks like she's going to cry when they all arrive in her office, and Santa appears before her looking equally as shocked.

Grif watches from the corner of his eye as Huggins sizes up the alien AI, and he has to hold back an amused eye roll when he sees that she makes herself slightly bigger in size.

Drama queen as usual.

"Grif," Kimball whispers, her hand poised in front of her mouth in disbelief. "Those videos-"

Rubbing the back of his neck he awkwardly responds, "If it means all the same to you, I'd rather not talk about those."

"Of course," she composes herself. Her composure breaks when she looks at him and says, "Welcome back, Captain."

Tears are pooling in his eyes, but he's held himself together this long, he can hold himself together still.

He's waited so long to just get back to everyone.

Striding over to him, Kimball wraps her arms tightly around him, and he doesn't know what to do.

How long has it been since someone had held him like this- someone that he truly cared about?

Everything is so different right now, so unknown.

And as he wraps his arms around her petite yet firm frame, he holds her just as tightly and knows that this is a good thing.

Everything was going to be alright.

* * *

Maroon is Simmons.

Red is Sarge.

Pink is Donut.

Brown is Lopez.

Yellow is Kai.

Aqua is Tucker.

Blue is Caboose.

Cyan is Carolina.

Grey Yellow is Wash.

Purple is Doc.

He can do this. He can remember their real names. He will address them by such.

* * *

Dylan is the one who ends up flying with him to Jax's movie set. He's surprised, only slightly, to see how the zany reporter had elevated his status to a movie director, but then again he supposes he should have seen it coming.

And he has to give props to whoever worked on set design, they managed to capture Temple's lair very well, and that's coming from someone who can only vaguely remember what things looked like from this time period.

There's an assistant leading them to the room where Jax and the other's are talking. Apparently, they arrived right on time for this meeting.

Gripping his satchel tightly, he knows that before anything else, he's gonna have to plead his and Huggins case about the dangers of time travel.

The assistant hesitantly knocks against the door and meekly says, "Director Jonez? There are two people here to see you..."

The door doesn't even open as Jax yells out, "FUCK. Can't you understand that I'm busy right now?!"

There's grumbling from the other side, and his heart starts to race and he starts to feel hot and sweaty. The unknown environment isn't helping him from panicking, and he just knows that if they don't hurry this up he's going to race back to the ship to get somewhere safer.

Glaring at the assistant, Dylan jerks her head to the side, a silent order followed by the man as she approached the door herself.

Knocking harshly she says, "Jax, I know you're smarter than to ignore me."

The door swiftly opened and Jax opened his arms in greeting, his tone much lighter as he said, "Dylan, how wonderful to see you again! Why didn't you tell me sooner that she was here," he growled at the assistant.

"Well, I-" he tries to say, but Dylan cuts him off.

"Well, I'm here now aren't I," she says, and then she looks back at Grif. "And I've brought a friend!"

"Oh, a mysterious friend, how wonderful," Jax gestures towards the room, where Grif can see the forms of the others.

He takes a step back, but Dylan predicated his movement because she reaches out without even having to turn around and tightly grabs him.

"He's an old mentor of mine you could say," she keeps her voice devoid of hesitation. "This is an investigative journalist, Kaikane."

"No last name," Jax queries before shrugging. "Not weirder than anyone else's name here. Come in, come in. I just know you're going to love what we're talking about Dylan!"

She drags him in, and he feels bare without his armor- but that would have been a give away about who he really was, so the minimal UNSC armor he's wearing now works for the moment.

It feels like he can't breath when he enters the room and sees multiple sets of eyes on him.

They don't recognize him. Not that he expected them to.

But somewhere deep inside he knows that it hurts.

"Before you say anything, I need to know, have you seen the news recently," Dylan asks, a side glance aimed at Grif.

"No, we haven't had the chance to, why," Carolina answers and Grif flinches slightly.

That was his mistake, he can see Carolina's helmet focus on him.

He tries to keep a poker face, but he's sure that he's already given himself away and made himself seem suspicious.

This, this was a bad idea.

"Oh," Dylan sounds surprised. She turns towards Simmons and asks, "Have you received any sort of message from Grif?"

Simmons glances at Sarge and says, "No, I haven't. Why, is Grif in trouble?"

"Nothing," Dylan continues to press. "Nothing at all?"

Shaking his head, he gestures to the time gun, bringing it into eyesight, saying, "I haven't heard from him since we got these and when we were separated."

Seeing the time gun like that does something to him.

It makes him panic, and he stumbles backward, hands clutching his satchel tightly, knowing that Huggins wasn't far away from him.

"Get rid of it," he manages to get out, head looking to the side, eyes closed. "Please, get rid of it, I don't want to see that fucking machine."

Simmons radiates confusion, but he takes the machine and hides it underneath the table that they're centered around.

He doesn't- he doesn't recognize his voice.

Has he really changed that much?

Is he even Grif anymore?

He doesn't feel like himself sometimes.

Carolina's stepping forward, shoulders lax, but walking with a rigid set in her motion.

She cautiously approaches him and asks, "What did you say your name was again?"

"My, my name," he stutters. "Yes, it's- it's um-"

He cuts himself and swallows nervously, feeling the tightness to his throat increase and his eyes pinch.

He shakes his head and tells Dylan, "I- I can't do this. This was a bad idea."

"Gr-" she cuts herself off, struggling to not out him in front everyone when he was on the verge of a panic attack.

It's too late.

Carolina connects the dots in a second, she was always smarting than the rest of them.

"Grif," she asks, hand reaching out.

That sets everyone off, and he can see Simmons' and Sarge's helmets snap upwards to look at him, and he just knows they're taking in what he looks like.

How- how different he looks.

He doesn't look like himself, far from it.

He's grown old, but not old enough, and he hates it when at the same time he's eternally grateful.

Grif can see black dots at the edge of his vision, and he just knows he's going to black out when he blinks and sees that Carolina is by his side.

She's gently easing him down, and he lets her handle him while his head spins and spins.

There are questions being thrown at Dylan, and he knows that she can't answer any of them beyond the bare minimum.

Carolina stays by his side, and he looks at her and he knows that she can never understand what he's been through.

And that is decidedly a good thing.

"What happened," she asks, not an order or a demand, but a gentle comment as she tries to relax him.

"Time travel," he gestures towards the hidden away machine. "It- it went wrong, so, so wrong."

She looks him over and asks, "Where's your gun?"

He shakes his head, saying, "I don't have one."

"You don't have one?" she asks confused. "But you just said that something went wrong with one of the time travel guns."

"That's what went wrong," he says. "I didn't have one."

He watches as the muscles in her hands tighten, and he just knows that she understands the meaning behind his words.

He feels calmer, and he knows that if Carolina can understand, then surely the others can too.

And just as he goes to address the room, everything goes to hell when Tucker and his sister appear from one of the portals, announcing, "Remind me again to never start a war between two countries when I'm king again."

He's caught up with them.

"You," sounds strained coming out of his throat.

He shrugs off Carolina's reassuring grip and rises. He clenches his fists as he stalks towards the aqua soldier.

"Who the hell are yo-" is cut off when Grif grabs Tucker and punches him in the visor.

His knuckles bruise, but the contact is so cathartic that he takes another swing and knocks Tucker to the ground in his shock.

He wants to beat the ever living shit out of the blue soldier, but there are hands pulling and holding him back. The contact is uncomfortable, it's out of his comfort zone and he fights against it, yelling, "Let me go! Fucking assholes!"

His sister is by Tucker's side, helping him up, but she's looking at him like he's a rabid dog that needs to be put down.

"Who the fuck is this guy," Tucker grounds out, a hand brought up to his helmet as he looks at him.

Someone- Simmons he thinks, tries to answer- tries to explain, but they're not heard over his loud, _"TWO THOUSAND FUCKING YEARS."_

The room is shocked silent, and he fights off the arms easily as he huffs out, "Two thousand years. I've been alive for two thousand fucking years, and it's all your fault."

"Dex?" Kai whispers, but of course, she recognizes him, he knows he resembles that old shitty photo of his deadbeat father that they used to have.

"You two-" he pauses to reign himself in. "You both just left the sixth century, right?"

The two blue soldiers nod their heads.

"That's not the only thing you left behind," his fists shake and his face twists as he turns to look the other way.

"What are you talking about," Tucker says, either not wanting to figure it out himself or he just genuinely can't understand the meaning of his words.

"You two left and suddenly I had no way out," his eyes are hard as he looks at him fully. "Do you know what it's like? Living for thousands of years waiting to meet up with you all again? It was _torture."_

He scowls, adding, "And do you know what it's like living through everything the way I did? Living without rights only to experience the Civil Rights Movement for what seems like a brief moment, having to- having to wait for the legalization of gay marriage? Waiting for the world to catch up to the social norms that we all take for granted?"

"It's torture," he shakes his head. "That's what you did, you let me get tortured for two thousand years."

"Grif, we- we didn't know," Tucker sounds pained. His grip on the time gun grows tighter as he says, "We can fix this! We can get you, we can come back for you!"

He goes to open up a time portal when Grif wrenches the time gun out of his hand, dropping it and kicking it away from them, saying, "Are you an idiot?! That's your solution- more time travel?"

"But we can get you and it would be like none of this happened," Tucker argues, and Grif wishes he could understand the dangers of time travel like he had.

It wasn't something to fuck around with, it was a cruel mistress that took more than it gave.

"And you would cause a paradox, because if you went back for me," Grif leans in close. "Then I wouldn't be here right now to tell you to go back."

"But we have to do something," he can't see Tucker's face behind the visor, but he knows he feels guilty.

"There's nothing you can do, but listen to me," Grif moves away from everyone, making sure to keep everyone in front of him. "Listen to me and someone else."

Opening the cover to his satchel, he lets Huggins float up and settle next to him.

"We can't keep fucking with time," Grif shakes his head. "This is Huggins, she can explain things better than I can."

She hesitates for a moment, turning towards him for reassurance before facing the others.

"I know my... previous Lords and Lady did not set the proper example for you all, but I no longer work for them," Grif knows it pains her to admit this, but he's proud of her for saying it all the same. "And I come here to beg you to stop. I cannot get on my knees to plead myself to you, but know that if I could, I would."

She pauses before she continues, "There is a Titan named Chrovos who has been using you all to free himself. I vaguely knew of his powers before, but I have become more acquainted with the effects of his tampering over these hundreds of years," she looks at him.

"He doesn't care who gets hurt with his meddling, he can only think of himself," she says. "So please, stop this. If you must work with my previous Lords and Lady then I would advise it, they only want to keep him trapped. They wish no harm on you or me or Grif."

Her glow turns more orange as she admits, "Please for all our sakes, let go of your desire to time travel so that we may protect everyone who is dear to our hearts."

Grif hears the sounds of someone appearing behind him, and he turns to see Donut's still form, still holding the time gun that he used to get there in his hand.

"Is that true," he asks. "Is Chrovos really a bad person?"

Huggins turns towards him and nods, "I wouldn't lie about this. He causes mayhem without caring about those who suffer as a result. He's been using all of you."

Donut looks to the side and his hands tighten against the handle of the machine.

"I believe you," he sighs. "And- I'm willing to help, in any way that I can."

"I can call upon the Cosmic Powers, and they can direct you on what to do next," Huggins moves closer towards Grif.

Looking towards Donut, Grif asks, "When you can, get Doc out of New York, the early two-thousands."

"Why would Doc be in New York," Donut sounds confused. "I just saw him in... wherever Chrovos presides."

"Oh," Grif responds.

So he did have knowledge of future events still. Funny how things turned out.

Huggins excuses herself so that she could contact the Cosmic Powers, but she gives him one final look before she leaves the room.

And then all eyes are on him.

His skin prickles at the thought that so many eyes were on him at once, a hanging presence that threatened to smother him.

There would be questions. He didn't want questions.

This wasn't how he imagined this would all go down. In his fantasies, this day had been a much happier moment.

But he's made a mess of it as usual.

Shouldering his satchel, he goes to excuse himself as well, saying, "Dylan, if you need me I'll be on the ship."

Trying to walk out of that room is like walking through a spiked pit because as soon as he walks past one of the others, their hand shot out to stop him.

He reacts badly, flinching out of their grasp violently. He hears papers spill out of his satchel, but his cheeks heat up in embarrassment at the response.

Grif doesn't stop walking until he's back in the safety of the ships hanger.

It's quiet and comfortable, so he just settles down in the co-pilot seat while he can.

It takes a while before there's a knock at his door, with him calling out, "Dylan if that's not you trying to take us back to Chorus, then I don't want to hear what you have to say."

"It's, um, not Dylan," a nervous and wonderfully familiar voice calls out, startling him out of his seat. "It's me- Simmons."

"Oh, um, come in, I guess," he says, looking away from the door.

He hears it slide open and he's prepared for accusations, for yelling at the way he handled the situation, but all he hears is the sound of him sitting down in the seat adjacent to his.

Looking over he sees that Simmons' helmet is off.

He can't stop the words, "Fuck I forgot how cute you looked," from tumbling out of his mouth.

Simmons' face flushes red, and he says, "Well- thank you, I guess?"

"Sorry," he apologizes. "I mean- I knew what your colors looked like, what with the whole skin grafts but, but you're just so much better and you're _you,_ you know?"

"Not really," Simmons looks awkward, and Grif knows that he isn't sure what to say.

Holding up the papers he was holding he says, "You dropped these on your way out."

The papers are yellowed and crinkled, beyond old in age, and it takes him a while to recognize exactly what they are.

Snatching them out of Simmons' hands, he shoves them back into his satchel, exclaiming, "You weren't supposed to see those."

"If it helps, I'm actually flattered," Simmons fumbles a bit and tacks on, "That you would want to marry me even after however long you were stuck in time. That you still like me, if you do that is- if you don't that's totally ok too!"

He can't help but laugh.

God, he's missed this fucking nerd, he's missed him so much.

"Of course I still love you," he doesn't hesitate to say. "Do you know how long I've waited to see you again? How many messages I sent hoping that they would somehow get to you?"

In a surge of movement, Simmons is connecting their lips together in a heated kiss, passionate and unrelenting.

Grif's shocked, but reciprocates just as furiously, grabbing both sides of the others face to deepen the connection.

They pull apart, reluctantly, but he's so unbelievably happy that he doesn't even mind.

He reaches up to take off his helmet that hardly conceals any of his face, letting it fall to the ground without a care.

"Wow," Simmons says breathlessly. "Two thousand years and you aren't even rusty."

"Yeah, well I've had my fair share of practice over the years," he says before realizing how bad that seems. "I'm sorry- I shouldn't have said that or- or done that, I should have stayed faithful."

"Hey, no, Dex, it's ok," Simmons breaks through his panicked and apologetic thoughts. "I wouldn't expect you to wait forever for me. I'm not mad."

That's such a relief to hear, and the guilt that he's felt for the brief relationships that he's had in the past disappears.

"Also, just so you know, you're not too bad looking yourself," Simmons says. "For someone who's physically about Sarge's age that is."

"Excuse me," he retorts in mock offense. "Did you just call me old?"

"Well, technically, you are two thousand years plus old," Simmons gestures to his appearance. "You should be grateful you look like a silver fox."

"Oh my god, all this time, I thought it was just you kissing ass to R- Sarge, but no, you're just into older men aren't you," a Cheshire grin appearing on his face.

"What- no- I," Simmons stammers, trying to defend himself. He settles on crossing his arms and retorting, "At least I don't have fucking crows feet already."

"I may not be a narcissist, but I've seen myself enough times recently to know I haven't gotten _that_ old yet," huffing he adds on, "even if I did, that would probably just be more attractive to you, right?"

Groaning in mortification, Simmons lowers his head as he mutters, "You're never going to let me live this down, aren't you?"

His smile falters slightly, but he still responds teasingly, "Nope."

Getting serious for a moment, Simmons reminds him, "Dylan mentioned earlier, something about me not getting messages? What was she talking about?"

"You could just look it up on online," his face gets downcast. "When I was stuck in time, I sent you messages, and they wouldn't send, of course, but suddenly-" he sighs before continuing. "Somehow they uploaded onto the internet, all of them. But they never sent to you directly."

"You sent me messages," Simmons asks. "Do you have an idea on why they were suddenly sent?"

"I want to say time travel bullshit, but I don't know," he shakes his head. "Maybe some AI bullshit? We've had trouble with them in the past, so it could be possible."

"An AI," Simmons thinks about it for a second. "Obviously it wasn't Church..."

"Who," Grif asks, and by the look on Simmons' face he can tell that he's forgotten someone important so he saves face by saying, "Just kidding. Yeah, no, probably not... him."

Simmons doesn't look completely convinced but at least he's willing to let it slide.

"You know eventually you're going to have to go back there and explain yourself to the others," Simmons points out.

"I know," Grif takes a deep inhale. "But maybe not right now? I might relapse into a moment of panic or something and I'd rather not do it in front of them."

Simmons looks at him sympathetically as he asks, "History hasn't been kind to you, has it?"

"Not in the slightest," Grif smiles ruefully. "But hey, now all that's behind me."

Simmons reaches around to hug him tightly, whispering, "I'm glad you're back, Grif."

"Glad to be back too," he leans into the hug, holding on for dear life.

Maybe everything was going to be alright after all.

There's a sharp knock on the door, and an accented voice calls out, "Director Jonez is wondering if the two of you would return to the war room once more."

Grif's eyes widen in shock, and he calls out, "Holy shit, is that fucking George Washington?"

There's a brief moment of pause, before the door opens up and Grif has to reign himself in from breaking out into laughter at the sight of George Washington wearing red coded power armor, as the man proclaims, "By I live and breathe, if it isn't my dear friend Timothy Dexter!"

"George, how wonderful to see you again," he gets up to shake the other man's hand. "I must say I am beyond shocked to see you here."

"The same to you, my old friend," Washington clapped him on the back in good gesture. "You are looking much more lively than before, and much older might I say."

"Well you know how it is, I guess you could say the revolution aged me by a century or two," he quips.

Washington laughs lightly and remarks, "It is good to see a familiar face here, but I must insist that you make your way back to Director Jonez, he seems most concerned."

"You go on ahead, we'll be there in just a second," Grif watches as Washington leaves the ship and heads back towards the movie set.

Turning towards Simmons he can see the perplexed expression on his face, and before he can get a word in, Grif quickly tells him, "I just want to make it clear that I totally stole that dudes name, and I am in no way actually the real guy."

"I wasn't even going to-" Simmons cuts himself off with a sharp shake of his head. "You know what, I'm sure I'll understand everything better when you explain it to me- to all of us."

"Oh, are you sure you want to hear _everything,"_ Grif smirks. "Even about the time I totally fucked the great playwright William Shakespeare."

"You didn't," Simmons denies, sounding aghast.

"I totally did," Grif nods.

Quickly slamming his helmet on and picking up Grif's own, Simmons demands, "I want to know everything- all two thousand years of it."

"It's going to be a very long story," Grif starts walking out of the ship with Simmons, feeling much more comfortable with him by his side. "It's best if I tell it all in one setting with everyone around."

"Fuck," Simmons growls out. "Fine, but you better not leave anything out."

They're almost back to the room when Grif realizes, "Dammit am I going to have to apologize for punching Tucker?"

Simmons paused in thought before shrugging, "I won't say anything if you don't."

Smiling, he truly looks at Simmons and says, "This is the exact reason why I never stopped loving you."

He can just tell that Simmons is blushing underneath his helmet by the way he stammers out, "Yes, well, let's just get inside so that we can- so that you can get this all over with."

He feels at peace, everything feels ok for once, so he just responds, "Yeah, of course."

Everything was going to be ok.

**Author's Note:**

> There were so many things that I wanted to include that I had to cut out for time, so I included all of the major things that I wanted to talk about. I do want to thank an anon I got on my Tumblr, who inadvertently gave me the idea for the marriage papers scene!
> 
> If you have any questions or comments, you can find me at either of my Tumblr's @agent-murica (main) and @amateurscribes (writing).


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